Once upon a time, very different from our time, there was a kingdom where women played basketball.
In that kingdom, skill was required to be drafted into the WNBA. Little or nothing was required to determine whether you were, in fact, a woman. Everyone seemed to know.
Women played happily, fiercely, and competitively against other women. Some were tall, some were fast, some could shoot from almost anywhere, while others played ferocious defense, blocking shots and stealing the ball with the enthusiasm of a medieval highwayman.
There were some, however, who appeared to have wandered onto the court directly from the set of Mad Max.
To the spectator, the players were classy, ghetto, or somewhere in between. And the more ghetto a player appeared, the more certain some spectators became that she was a lesbian. But nevertheless, they were women. And in those days, that seemed to be enough.
There was, of course, a magnificent structure built around these female basketball players.
The Team President oversaw operations. The General Manager worried about drafts, trades, contracts, and all the other matters that make basketball executives look perpetually constipated. The Head Coach determined strategy and tried to explain to twenty-something athletes why they should pass the ball when they were absolutely certain they could score themselves.
Assistant coaches searched for talent. Vice presidents became involved in transactions. Scouts watched players. Development personnel developed players. Trainers trained them. Medical personnel patched them back together, especially when the ghetto players caused injury.
It was a wonderfully complicated kingdom, but the players wanted to get paid.
Owners, presidents, chief operating officers, marketing experts, public-relations professionals, lawyers, and assorted executives worked diligently to make sure the ladies received an income, while, naturally, the NBA helped subsidize the kingdom's financial arrangements much like paying child support for a child that isn’t your own.
And everything was peaceful. Well, mostly.
The lovely Sophie Cunningham of the Indiana Fever opened her mouth. And suddenly, the kingdom discovered that the word woman was apparently more complicated than a full-court press.
Sophie said that women and girls should not have to compete against biological males. That’s all, nothing more. It was difficult to imagine a more ordinary thing.
But this was no longer “Once Upon a Time.” It was now.
And over the dark mountains of doom came Megan Rapinoe, flying upon her rhetorical broomstick, shouting words such as “inclusion,” “compassion,” and “hate” as the wind whipped her golden-purple hair behind her.
“Inclusion!” screeched the witch of the dark kingdom. “Biology!” cried Cunningham.
The room fell silent.
The officials gathered together under the banner of something called the Anti-Hate Task Force.
Their mission was noble: nobody should be harassed, bullied, assaulted, or humiliated. Transgender people, like everyone else, should be treated with dignity. Everyone agreed, nodded, and smiled.
Then, someone asked the question nobody seemed prepared to answer: "What exactly is the women's athletic category, and who is eligible to enter it?”
Suddenly, the kingdom shook with a hissy fit.
The WNBA's rulebook essentially said that only women could play in the WNBA, but what, precisely, was a woman? The officials stared at one another. One looked at the ceiling. Another looked beneath the table. Someone began searching the internet.
And somewhere in the back of the room, an assistant coach who claimed she had been born in Narnia nervously raised her hand. “What about Brittney Griner?” she asked. “She's a man, right?”
There was an extraordinary silence. Nobody answered. The assistant coach was never seen again from that day to this day. Some said she returned to Narnia. Others said she was promoted to Human Resources. Still others insisted she had simply been swallowed by the corporate communications department.
The task force continued its deliberations.
There were officials from Wonderland or the Land of Oz, while others were obviously from the Shire, Lilliput, the Hundred Acre Wood, and one particularly confused executive kept insisting she was from Toyland.
Then came a knock at the door. Everyone turned. Through the doorway ducked two enormous men.
Enes Kanter Freedom and Royce White had arrived, their towering frames filling the entrance. “We are declaring for the WNBA!” they proclaimed.
A terrible screech echoed above the building as Rapinoe circled overhead on her broomstick; her dark magic was beginning to fail.
The officials looked at one another. If they said “no” because these applicants were men, they might have to explain why biological sex suddenly mattered. If they said “yes”, they might have to explain why a women's league had become open to men.
The lawyers began sweating, and the consultants began consulting, while the public-relations people began drafting statements. And then, just as the kingdom appeared destined to perish beneath an avalanche of ambiguity, Sophie Cunningham appeared at the door.
Behind her stood Caitlin Clark, ready for a smackdown fight!
The room went quiet.
Sophie spoke. “We don't believe transgender people should disappear, be ignored, or be treated without dignity. We simply believe women's sports should remain women's sports.”
Commissioner Cathy Engelbert from The Shire stood. “We will consult our lawyers, administrators, activists, medical professionals, and policy experts to determine what a woman is!”
At that very moment, another familiar voice came from the doorway.
Hugh Laurie entered.
“Why don't you ask one of your referees?”
Everyone stared.
“They can explain,” Hugh continued, “that out of bounds means out of bounds, a foul is a foul, a three-pointer is a three-pointer, and a woman is a woman.”
“But you're an English actor and musician,” Engelbert protested.
Hugh smiled. “You forget. I played an American doctor on House, M.D. for eight years.”
The room gasped, but such was the primitive intelligence in the room that nobody seemed to notice the obvious problem. Despite playing a doctor on television, Hugh Laurie was not, in fact, a medical doctor. And yet, considering the conversation so far, he appeared to be the most qualified person in the room.
Cunningham stepped forward.
“This is not an attack on transgender people. It is not a demand that anyone be denied dignity. It is not a call for cruelty. It is a demand for clarity.”
At that precise moment, Rapinoe could be heard screaming from the rooftop: “COMPASSION! COMPASSION! COMPASSION!”
Cunningham looked around the room, then famously pointed toward the door. “REALITY!” She pointed toward the basketball court. “REALITY!” And finally, she pointed toward the word written above the entrance to the league itself. “REALITY!”
The officials stared at one another. For the first time, they began to wonder whether the greatest problem facing the WNBA was not how to define a woman. Perhaps it was that they had forgotten why the women's league existed in the first place.
And somewhere high above the arena, Rapinoe's broom began to wobble.
To be continued...
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